Shotgun

It’s the first time a man ever tried to put his hand in my pocket. I would have killed him if he didn’t have the.22 four-shot stuck in my gut. It’s a cheap plastic thing, as far as I can tell, and they outnumber us fifteen to two, but just the one gun. It should be fifteen to four, but Tommy’s pussy cousin Darnell ran as fast as he could, first sight of the pistol. Maya didn’t want to leave, but they made her. I know she’s watching from behind the stained orange curtains of our motel room. I know she wants to call the cops, but she can’t with the box in there.

I feel like I might piss my pants. If Tommy’s scared, he’s doing a better job hiding it, though the gun’s on me, not him. Tommy and I look at each other. With our eyes we say it. We say that on most days, these assholes would be toast. The guys without pistols hoot and taunt while the ring leader pulls a ten from my pocket and looks it over with bloodshot eyes.

“Look what we got here,” says the gunman, holding the pistol steady in his right hand and showing off the ten spot with the left.

“Give it back.” Tommy says, and my eyes go wide at him.

“Na-uh,” says the gunman. “Tell you what. We gonna get some weed and you smoke it with us.”

“Nah, take it. Smoke. We gotta get going.” My voice cracks. They know I’m scared. It’s not the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me, but it is the first time I don’t have my own to answer back. I don’t usually leave it in the car but we weren’t expecting any problems. This isn’t even the house. We were just walking to the liquor store on the other side of the parking lot. I feel light-headed, not just from the Mickey’s. It’s not so much that I’m scared. I know this could be the end. I’m afraid to die. My family tried to raise me respectable. If I get another chance I’ll change. They laugh and curse and call me names. If I get my hands on my .44, I’ll shoot them all in their mouths. A punk with a toy-looking .22. It’s all frustrating.

“You look mad, white boy,” the gunman works his crowd. “What you doing down in the ghetto anyway? It’s dangerous to your health and shit. You and your Puerto Rican friend should know better than to come down here.”

Tommy isn’t Puerto Rican. His dad is black, but he doesn’t say a word.

“How ’bout you let us go?” I’m tired. It seems like we’ve been standing in this parking lot half the night. I need to piss. I wait for him to let his guard down but it’s not gonna happen.

“How ’bout we fight for this here money,” he says. “You win, you walk away, take your ten dollars.”

“No way man.” I almost forget Tommy is still standing here until I hear him pipe up. “You lose and the rest of your boys jump us. We know how it works.” I realize that all the attention is on me, and Tommy could’ve probably slipped away, but he’s sticking here with me.

“I ain’t talking to you. What you say Elvis? You wanna throw down?”

“Keep the money,” I tell him. “We’ll go peaceful.”

“Okay John mother-fuckin Travolta. Go. But you gonna give us those jackets first. Both of ’em.”

“Hell no,” Tommy says. I try to get his attention. Let him know we should just give up the jackets and walk away. He sees me. He ignores me.

“Give ’em up and you cake boys can get take off.”

“You’ll have to shoot us.” I look over at him. “Who wants a bloody jacket,” he asks.

“Motherfucker.” The gunman tenses. “I ain’t playing. I ain’t from here, I’m from D-town. De-troit, bitches!”

“I don’t give a fuck. Shoot me down, D-town.” I think Tommy might be serious. He’s tired too. Detroit looks us over and starts laughing. He’s nervous. Maybe he’s been scared all along.

“Faggots. Get on out. I’m taking the dime and you ain’t getting no weed, but you two can get the fuck on out and get your fuck on. I don’t give a damn.”

He pulls the .22 away from my gut and points it at my head.

“Walk away. That’s right, take chico with ya punk ass.”

So we’re back in the hotel. I want to rip down those nasty orange curtains. Maya’s crying and she hugs us both. I’m not used to seeing her emotional. Truth is, she’s a bad ass girl and she’s Tommy’s girl and I never so much as touched her before, but it all feels natural. I realize these two are the closest thing I have to family right now. I know what they’re willing to do for me. I tell Tommy I’m going to the car to get my .44 and he goes over to the box to get his nine. Maya tells us to hold up. Darnell said something about calling the cops when he ran out. He never came back. Then the blue lights make way through the curtains.

There’s no time and nowhere to hide the box, so we leave it by the nightstand and get ready to play victims. There’s knocking and a loudspeaker but no siren. Detroit and his crew must be long gone. Maya opens the door, forcing fake tears.

“Evening Ma’am, we got called about a civil disturbance.”

“They had a gun and I thought, I thought they were gonna die.” What an actress.

“Can you gentleman describe the perpetrators?” The partner speaks up.

“There was like twenty of ’em” I tell him. I see the first officer’s gray eyes peering at the box. Tommy does too and it makes us nervous.

“What’s in the box?”

“It’s my – girlie stuff.” I’m thinking, “Way to go Maya.” He still looks all suspicious at us though.

“What did they look like?” The partner keeps writing notes, ignoring the box. “Were they…”

“They were all black,” snaps Tommy. Gray eyes seems a little too happy about this new bit of information.

“What were they wearing?”

“Mostly red jackets,” I remember, “everything else is blurry.”

“You boys been drinking, huh?” He must know we’re underage and he sees empty 40 ounce bottles of Olde English and Mickey’s on the sink, the bed and the floor.

“Yes, sir.” Tommy confesses after me. I think he’s gonna ask for ID and Maya works her magic.

“They tried to kill us. You gonna let them get away with it?”

“No ma’am. Powers, call for backup. You two. Enough booze for tonight. You might have figured out, this isn’t the best part of town for you to be in. You might want to get a place in Flushing or further north next time.” They rush out, old gray eyes stares us down one last time. Looks like he wants to nail us too. We all must be thinking the same thing: he’s coming back for us tonight. They close the baby blue door and Tommy holds up both middle fingers. The tires spray gravel and stones at the Plexiglass. “Fucking pigs!”

We don’t waste any time. As soon as the coast is clear, we pack our shit.

“The drop isn’t till tomorrow,” I remind them.

“I called Carlos. Don’t be pissed. I had to do it. Thought they were gonna kill ya.” How could we be pissed at Maya after everything?

“Get the box. Time to go hunting.” Tommy loads a round into the chamber. I’m already there.

“No, he said not to take any chances with the box.” Maya’s more than a little nervous.

“Fuck the box. First thing’s first.”

We drive around for a few hours. Maya saw Detroit get into the car, a white Pontiac Sunbird. The rest in a long green car, probably a 70’s model. It’s quiet as we make our way up Martin Luther King Boulevard. A small crowd smokes outside the Copa and most everything else is dead, shutters and bars on the windows and eerie security lights glimmer in the black and white slush of the covered sidewalks. There’s a gas station open. Tommy stops the car. He buys a pack of Newports from the Arabian man who’s staring us down from behind the bullet-proof glass and metal bars. Maya uses the pay phone to beep Carlos and I sit on the trunk, hand in my coat pocket, caressing the trigger.

“Hamilton.” Tommy jump-steps to the driver’s side. I don’t know where the hell that is and it’s okay because he’s driving. I guess he tells me in case he forgets. “We’re not that far away,” he says, but it’s taking forever and none of us says much else. The music is low. All I can hear is some sort of bass. He slams on the brakes when he sees a sign that says “Durant Park.” We almost spin around sideways in the slush and shit, and he skids into a small wooden sign that says “play safe.” We get out, he checks the damage but waves it off, disgusted, all in a fraction of a second. There’s no lighting nearby except for two tall poles across a field. Out in plain sight, on a picnic table, we see Detroit, or what once was. He’s full of bullets but I can still make out his face. He’s young. Maybe younger than us – fifteen, sixteen? All indications will have the police looking for a rival gang: the three prongs pointing up, carved into his hand; the black tagging on his red goose down jacket. But, there’s a note in the other hand. I’m not touching it but Tommy does. It says “W/love C.” Tommy spits in Detroit’s face and we walk back to the car.

The place where we dropped the box smelled like a mix of the home perm kits my sister uses, sulfur and a cattle farm. Tommy said it was next door to a crack house. Maybe that’s what’s in the duffle bag we picked up when we dropped the box. I don’t want to know what it is. It’s not my problem. I’m just hired help. We’re past Saginaw now and what I see out the windows is greener with every mile marker. The snowdrifts are taller and whiter. The horizon is turning pink, making it harder to keep our eyes open. Tommy has family in Tawas. He tells me it might be a good idea to sleep before we finish the trip to the Soo. He turns off 75 and takes 23. Maya is asleep in the back. “We’ll be safe there,” he says. I just stare out at the image to my right, an ice-covered Lake Huron.

After the drop, Tommy put in a Johnny Cash C.D., something I didn’t even realize he had. I asked him back in Flint why I never drive. He said it’s not so much that I’m the better shot but that he’s the better driver. That’s the funniest shit I’ve heard all day. I want to close my eyes and dream about the good old days in the Wild West. I imagine myself riding on top of a stagecoach. Only thing is, every time I close my eyes, Detroit’s .22 pokes me in the stomach and jolts me back.

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Joseph D. Haske is a writer, editor, critic and member of the National Book Critics’ Circle. He currently serves as the Department Chair at South Texas College in McAllen, Texas.